


It All Began With a Song

by enso_infinite



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, English lit student!Derek, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Music, Music student!Stiles, fail everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 05:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2640242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enso_infinite/pseuds/enso_infinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Derek, my man, my homie, I need your help!” Stiles exclaims as he notices Derek walking over, hope lightening up his features, his eyes pleading.  </p><p>“How can I be of assistance?” Derek asks as nonchalantly as he can, letting Stiles pull him down onto the couch. </p><p>“You’re an English lit major, right? Tell me, what’s a good rhyme for ‘dental floss’?”</p><p>Derek chuckles. “Is that really what you think we do in class, writing verses all day?”</p><p>“Well, I figure you probably make macramé while discussing the erotic/symbolic/neurotic subtext of Shakespeare’s work, but who knows, maybe you’re also required to write bad poetry.”</p><p>“Fortunately for everyone’s mental health, we are not. The macramé was supposed to be an insider secret, though.”</p><p>---</p><p>Based on the following prompt:</p><p>You live in the room next door to mine and you have been playing "Old MacDonald Had a Farm" very loudly for the past two hours. Are you. I mean. Are you okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It All Began With a Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theleavesoflorien](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=theleavesoflorien).



> This fic is dedicated to theleavesoflorien, my person whose passion and enthusiasm have inspired me this story. This is all for you, darling.

**It All Began With a Song**

**\---**

That’s it. He can’t fucking take it anymore. Derek tosses the book he’s been trying to read for the last two hours on his bed and storms out of his room without bothering to put on any shoes, his face scrunched up in an expression of pure exasperation. With a closed fist, he bangs vigorously on the door next to his until it swings open, revealing a half asleep looking student in a white tee and grey sweatpants, his dark hair sticking out in all directions, a streak of blue ink smeared across his chin. Derek knows he’s staring, but he can’t help it. Dammit, the guy is fucking cute.

“Dude, what the hell?” the guy asks, his voice hoarse with sleep, rubbing his fingers against his left eye. Somehow, the gesture reminds Derek of kittens and warm blankets, and he doesn’t know whether to barf or wrap the guy in his arms and never let go. 

Judging from the baby fat that hasn’t quite disappeared from his cheeks, the guy must be an underclassman, which is odd because Derek’s dorm usually houses juniors and seniors only. Derek takes in the upturned nose, the eyes the colour of the sea at dusk, the myriad of moles scattered across the delicate skin like India ink droplets on white silk. He swallows, tearing his eyes away from the guy’s very attractive, very distracting face. Which is almost worst, because then Derek’s gaze rakes over the guy’s broad shoulders, his wiry arms dusted with dark hairs, fingers, long and elegant, that seed wild thoughts in Derek’s brain, and he has to look away before the guy kicks him in the balls for behaving like a total creep.

It takes him a while to remember why he even came here in the first place. “Are you okay?” he finally asks, frowning with genuine concern. Because despite his annoyance, he is kind of worried about his neighbour’s mental well-being. 

“I was before you tried to smash my door into pieces. What’s wrong with you?”

That gets Derek to lift his eyes back up, his brows furrowing so deeply they’re half a centimeter away from forming a very long and furry caterpillar. “You’ve been playing _Old MacDonald Had a Farm_ for nearly two hours straight,” he explains. “Somehow, I doubt I’m really the one with some serious issues here, buddy.”

The guy blinks at him, slowly processing what Derek has just said, before his eyes widen in realization and he scurries over to his desk to stop the stupid recording.

“Oh my God,” he says once he comes back to the door, raking a hand through his hair in embarrassment. “Dude, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to put it on a loop and then fall asleep.”

“Derek, not dude.”

“Right. I’m Stiles.” His neighbour extends a hand which Derek shakes politely.

Now that’s everything’s sorted and settled, Derek can turn around and resume his afternoon reading in his room, but his feet refuse to move. Stiles, now fully awake, is staring at him, question marks in his eyes, his brows slightly raised.

“I’d never seen you around here before,” Derek remarks, focusing on the mole under Stiles’ left eye like it was a buoy. He refrains from slapping himself in the face for the tritest conversation starter in history. Now all it would take to complete the cliché is for him to lean against the doorframe and contort his face into The Smoulder. But in his defense, he has as much flirting experience as a lampshade.   

“It’s because I just moved in like two days ago,” Stiles explains, opening his door wider to show Derek the unpacked boxes lying across his floor. “The water pipes in my former room kind of exploded all over the place so the RA gave me this room after the kid who was living here conveniently got expelled for possession of meth or crack or glue fumes, I don’t know, something illegal, so here I am.”

Stiles has delivered his entire line without once pausing to take a breath, all the while flailing his hands around for emphasis. Derek is both impressed and slightly frightened.

“Can I ask, why the children’s song?” Derek asks anyway.

“I’m a music major and we got this, um, project,” Stiles answers, scratching at the back of his neck. “We have to compose a nursery rhyme and I was trying to get some inspiration.”

“And, of all the nursery rhymes available, you chose _Old MacDonald Had a Farm_ ,” Derek scoffs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes at Derek. “I don’t like the judgment in your tone, mister. What do you have against farms and old people?” he asks, though he can’t quite suppress the small quirk of his lips. 

“That song is maddening is all I’m saying, especially after listening to it for hours on end. I’m sure they use it as a torture device in the military,” Derek replies, shaking his head in disapproval.

“Well, if you’re _such_ an expert on nursery rhymes, what would you suggest I listen to instead, hmm?”

Derek racks his brain trying to remember a song from his childhood. “ _The Molecatcher_ ,” he says finally, the corner of his lips tugging into a smirk.

“Hold on for a sec,” Stiles says as he turns around and fumbles for something on his desk. “It’s a bawdy song, you fucker,” he snorts as he comes back, his phone in his hand, a Wikipedia page spread on the screen.   

“Oh, is it?” Derek replies, feigning innocence.

Stiles rolls his eyes as he idly slides his thumb across his phone screen, muttering something about twenty missed calls. “Oh, shit,” he blurts. “Shit, shit, _shit_. I’m supposed to meet my teammates for a group project like, half an hour ago.” He hurries back into his room, throws on a red hoodie while shoving a notebook and a pencil case into a backpack, grabs his keys, and locks the door behind him. “I’m sorry, Derek, I really gotta go. It was nice meeting you and all. See ya!” he yells over his shoulder as he runs down the hallway.

“Stiles!” Derek calls out after him. “You forgot your shoes!”

But Stiles has already disappeared in the elevator. 

\---

The following weeks pass without further incidents. Derek runs into Stiles sometimes in the dorm hallways. They’d exchange a couple of words, insignificant small talk that would make Derek want to bang his head against a wall, because despite their easy banter on their first encounter, it seems that they can’t hold a conversation without it being punctuated by interminable moments of awkward silence.

 “You don’t understand,” he complains to his friend Braeden one afternoon. They’re hanging out in his room, propped up against the headboard of Derek’s bed. “It’s like there’s this... _something_ , between us, but whenever we try having a conversation, we always end up cutting it short for some reason, and I don’t know, it’s just... frustrating,” he continues while Braeden devours her latest issue of _Ms. Marvel_ , punctuating his monologue with agreeing sounds at regular intervals. “Braeden, I’m baring my soul to you here, the least you can do is pretend you’re listening,” he grouses, though there’s no real heat in it, because he knows that despite her apparent inattention, her inner yenta hasn’t missed a word.

The soft sunlight pouring from the window casts a golden glow over Braeden’s umber skin. Her hair is pulled up into a messy bun, exposing the claw scars running across her neck, a souvenir from an unfortunate encounter with a wolf a few years back. She usually tells that story with the same excitement as someone who is asked about their bowel movements. Over time, people who regularly interact with her have learned not to bring the subject up. 

Braeden takes her sweet time to finish reading her current panel before she answers, “There’s nothing to understand except that you’re trying too hard, Derek. Just, for once, stop being a control freak and let nature take its course.”

Derek sighs and let it rest for an entire minute before he picks it up again. “Maybe it’s a sign that he’s not interested.”

“Maybe,” Braeden agrees, turning another page.  

“You were supposed to say, _No, Derek. It’s obvious that he’s undeniably into you and that he wants your babies and the secret of your perfect beard.”_

Braeden rewards his histrionics with a snort.

“It’s true that your beard is kind of perfect,” she says, running a hand along his stubbled jaw appreciatively.

“Spinach and yoga can do wonders to one’s facial hair,” he confesses jokingly, making things up along the way. 

She rolls her eyes and closes her comic book. “You dork. You should try spending more time with him.”

“But, how?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, waving a hand in the air. “Play board games with each other, try a new recipe together in the communal kitchen, offer to repair his sink wearing only your cargo pants. Use your _imagination_.”

Derek only raises his eyebrows, which earns him a slap on the deltoid and another eye roll.

“Keep it clean, you perv,” Braeden admonishes.

“You’re the one suggesting I do handiwork in his room half naked!” he protests. “Besides, you know I can’t tell a wrench from a cucumber, so really, there’s no use.”

“The goal is to give yourselves opportunities to develop your relationship organically. Don’t rush things because down that road only lies disappointment, my friend.” She gets off Derek’s bed and drags him along with her. “Come on, you slug. The first step in achieving your goal is to get out there and interact with the guy, and let me tell you, lying in bed all day isn’t going to help.”

“How are things with Jordan?” Derek asks, following his friend out of his room. He hasn’t heard her talk about her boyfriend in a long time, but that’s probably because he hasn’t asked, too preoccupied with his own problems to worry about others’. His shoulders drop as guilt sinks in his stomach.

Braeden’s delicate features scrunch up into a scowl. “Since the night he spontaneously proposed to me in bed and I said no, he’s been avoiding me.”

Derek stops dead in his tracks, staring at his friend with stupefaction. “He _what_?”

“I know, it’s ridiculous. _He’s_ ridiculous, but it didn’t deter me before and it won’t deter me now. I just wish he’d talk to me.” 

Wrapping an arm around Braeden’s shoulders, Derek squeezes her tight. “Do you want me to go talk to him?”

“I know you will regardless, but I appreciate your attempt at showing consideration for my preference on the matter.”

He grins at her, tilting his head slightly. “Anything for my favourite person.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet of you. Mine’s Jordan.”

“Ouch,” Derek says, releasing her and quickening his pace.

Braeden’s laugh follows him and he can’t help but snicker along too. 

 ---

The opportunity presents itself a few days later, when Derek finds Stiles in the student lounge staring at a piece of paper with the most desperate expression Derek has ever witnessed on the face of another human being. Stiles slumped back into his couch, his mouth drooping with defeat, a guitar sitting on his lap, dozens of crumpled pieces of paper littering the floor.

“Derek, my man, my homie, I need your help!” Stiles exclaims as he notices Derek walking over, hope lightening up his features, his eyes pleading. 

“How can I be of assistance?” Derek asks as nonchalantly as he can, letting Stiles pull him down onto the couch.

“You’re an English lit major, right? Tell me, what’s a good rhyme for ‘dental floss’?”

Derek chuckles. “Is that really what you think we do in class, writing verses all day?”

“Well, I figure you probably make macramé while discussing the erotic/symbolic/neurotic subtext of Shakespeare’s work, but who knows, maybe you’re also required to write bad poetry.”

“Fortunately for everyone’s mental health, we are not. The macramé was supposed to be an insider secret, though.”

Stiles winks at him, his lips stretching into an exaggeratedly smug grin.

“Is this about that nursery rhyme you had to compose?” Derek asks. 

“Yep. I got the melody nailed down, but the lyrics, ugh. I can’t.” Stiles throws his hands up in frustration and goddammit, his fucking fingers will be the death of Derek.

“You know there are rhyme dictionaries online, right?” Derek says, distracting himself with the cuff of his denim shirt.

“There are?” Stiles widens his eyes in mock surprise. “My laptop’s kaput and I’m too lazy right now to drag my ass across campus to get to the library, so I’m doing this old school, baby.”

“Do you want me to have a look?” Derek offers, jutting his chin at the piece of paper that Stiles is clutching, trying not to both cringe and shiver at being called ‘baby,’ however innocent it was.

Stiles hesitates for a moment, looking vaguely embarrassed. “Alright,” he finally agrees, “but it’s still a rough draft, so don’t laugh.”

What Derek reads on Stiles’ paper doesn't make him laugh. Making him lapse into a diabetic coma would be more accurate.

_Broccoli, curry, strawberry, candy_

_The things you eat that make you happy_

_Also damage your teeth over time_

_If you don’t brush them from time to time_

_And even if you just eat applesauce_

_Don’t forget to use dental floss_

_Because oral hygiene is important_

_To keep your smile healthy and vibrant_

“I know it’s kind of super lame, but maybe if you squint a little and tilt your head to the side...” Stiles falters, looking at his hands.

“It’s cute and educational,” Derek comments, smiling fondly. “Now I feel a sudden urge to go brush my teeth.”

“You’re sweet, but I still need to work on matching the lyrics to the rhythm,” Stiles sighs, rubbing a hand over his tired face. 

“Can I listen to the melody?”

Stiles seems surprised by Derek’s genuine interest in his project, but he recovers pretty quickly. “Oh, okay. Yeah.”

Well, Derek clearly didn’t think this through, because his fascination with Stiles’ fingers is dangerously turning into a bona fide obsession as he watches them run along the strings of Stiles’ guitar, nimble and precise. He makes himself focus on the music before his thoughts stray too far into fantasyland and create a situation that he really doesn’t want to deal with in front of Stiles right now. 

The tune is upbeat and children appropriate, Derek supposes. He doesn’t know much about music, but he thinks he’d dance happily to Stiles’ song if he were a five-year-old.

“This tune, I like it. Another!”

Stiles bumps Derek’s shoulder lightly. “Thanks. I like to think my composition skills don’t suck as much as my songwriting ones.”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Derek protests, frowning a little. Who can realistically expect to be an expert at something they rarely practice, anyway?

Stiles shrugs, picking at the hem of his shirt. “Maybe.”

Derek can sense it now, the awkward moment of silence looming over them and the mélange of despair and panic in his guts that generally accompanies it. He’s getting the feeling that maybe Stiles is just too nice to tell him to go away once he’s done talking to him. Before he can really work himself up over this depressing hypothesis, he notices the warm smile spreading over Stiles’ face as he looks at someone or something over Derek’s shoulder. Derek turns his head and sees a pretty girl in a floral dress returning Stiles’ beam with an equally radiant one.   

“Hey, Stiles!” she says as she approaches them, strawberry blonde hair braided across her head like a crown, a guitar case dangling in her back. “I thought I’d find you here.”

“Lyds, what’s up? Oh, this is Derek, he lives in the room next door to mine. Derek, this is Lydia, the moon of my life, the apple of my eye, the song of my heart.”

“He means that in the most platonic way possible,” Lydia clarifies, smiling sweetly at Derek, “so you can unclench now.”

Derek darts his eyes to the side, and then blinks at her. Okay, fine. Hearing Stiles referring to Lydia with such nausea inducing terms did unleash a surge of jealousy in Derek’s stomach, not that he would ever admit to it, even under torture.

“Wow, Lyds. It only took you five seconds to come up with something inappropriate this time. I’m impressed,” Stiles comments, his tone dry as a raisin.

“Thanks, I try,” she replies as she pushes an armchair closer to their couch and takes a seat, depositing her guitar by her feet. “What were you guys working on?”

“My stupid nursery rhyme.”

“It’s not stupid,” Derek objects instinctively.

“Stiles has this bad habit of constantly selling himself short. You’ll get used to it,” Lydia says, reaching out for Stiles’ paper. Her eyes scan the lyrics quickly, and she nods in approval. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” Stiles raises his eyebrows in disbelief.

“I mean, it could’ve been much worse.”

“Gee, your encouragements are always the warmest, Lyds.”

“I don’t make a habit of sugarcoating things. Exhibit A: You look like crap. Did you get any sleep at all last night?”

“Pulled an all-nighter to finish up an essay on the psychology of procrastination.”

Derek chuckles. “You should’ve filmed it and submitted it as performance art.”

Stiles stares at Derek, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide. “I’m _so_ upset right now. There was an opportunity and I totally missed it.” 

“You know what’s going to lift your spirits?” Lydia questions as she releases her guitar from its case. “Good music.”

“The Jam Session Mondays, that’s you guys?” Derek realises, darting his eyes from Stiles to Lydia.

Every other Monday night, a bunch of students would gather in the lounge and improvise a couple of songs on various instruments. It’d always attract a large crowd and Derek would generally stop by to listen from afar for a while before retreating to his room. He’d never come early enough to have a good look at the musicians, so he had no idea who they were and didn’t really care until now.     

“Yep,” Stiles answers with pride. “The rest of the band is due to arrive any minute now.”

And as if on cue a group of boisterous students barge into the room, carrying their musical instruments and laughing at something the girl with the dimples has said. Derek gets introduced to Allison who plays the violin and tends to wield her bow around like a weapon, Scott who’s behind the synth, Danny who’s responsible for the percussion, and Liam who doesn’t play anything but enjoys clapping his hands along to the beat.

“Where are Kira and Malia?” Stiles wonders out loud.

“Out on a date,” Scott answers, setting up his synth. “They promised to bring back curly fries.”

“Nice, I haven’t had any in ages,” Stiles says.

“Do you play anything, Derek?” Allison asks him, dimples creasing her cheeks as she smiles.

“I used to play the piano for a couple of months until I realised I had no talent and lost all interest in learning.”

“Aw, that’s unfortunate,” Stiles comments. “You have a lovely voice, though, so you can sing along if you want.”

Derek can feel the tip of his ears burning. “What?” he says in a strangled voice.

“Dude, thin walls, remember?”

Great, now Derek’s whole face must be glowing like a red light. He guesses sometimes, he can get a little carried away, but he never thought he was ever loud enough for anyone to notice.

“Guys, ready?”  Lydia asks, adjusting her guitar on her lap.

Derek doesn’t remember ever feeling so amazed by raw talent in his entire life. It is as if the band was a single unit, each member’s contribution blending together seamlessly. With only a few basic jazz chords, they manage to create a funky groove that gets Derek’s head bobbing along to the rhythm.   

And from the moment Stiles picks up his guitar to the very end of the jam session, his gaze doesn’t leave Derek even once.

\---

“We need to talk,” Derek says as he flops down in a chair next to a guy with the face of a freshman despite his twenty-two years of age.  

The guy startles and glares at Derek. “It’s a library. We’re not supposed to talk.”

Derek juts his chin at one of the group study rooms available, his arms crossed over his chest. The guy sighs and starts gathering his things reluctantly. He knows Derek well enough to recognize the ‘I Won’t Leave Until I Get What I Want’ face that Derek has put on, which usually precedes his ‘I’m Going to Rip Your Throat Out With My Teeth’ face if one doesn’t comply fast enough with his requests. He’s always said Derek will end up in the back of a police cruiser one of these days if he keeps doing those faces, which Derek takes as a compliment, because it only means his faces get stuff done.  

“Is Braeden sending you? I swear I’ll talk to her, but—”

“Jordan, calm down. I’m not here to attack you,” Derek says as he slides the door of the study room close.

He takes a seat and gestures for Jordan to do the same. “I know you’re mortified,” he continues, enjoying Jordan’s discomfort quite a bit. He’s awful like that.

“What?” Jordan replies, raising his eyebrows.

“I know I would if the person I proposed to said no.”

“No, that’s not it.” Jordan shakes his head, his eyes downcast. “It’s the fact that I even proposed in the first place.”

“What?” Now it’s Derek’s turn to be confused.

“I didn’t mean to. It was something I did on the spur of the moment, you know? I’m glad she said no. It’s just now, I feel like such an idiot and I don’t know how to get myself elegantly out of this mess and I don’t want to lose Braeden and I—”

“Jordan, breathe.”

Jordan inhales sharply, his shoulders slumped and eyes sad.

“She can’t read your mind, buddy,” Derek says, extending a hand to pat Jordan’s arm comfortingly. “You need to talk to her.”

Jordan sighs, but seems resigned. “Is she mad at me?”

“You might want to be wearing a jockstrap when you see her.”

Derek bites down a smirk at the alarmed look Jordan shoots his way. He claps him on the shoulder and ushers him out, glad that this went better than he’d expected.

“You know, you should take your own advice,” a voice says on his left.

Derek turns his head and sees Lydia staring at him, leaned against the wall, her expression unreadable.

“Were you eavesdropping?” he queries, feeling a little offended by her indiscretion.

“Come on. I saw you getting in there with a pretty boy, looking all kinds of intense. What was I supposed to do?”

“How about you could have left us alone? It’s none of your concern.”

“It is when it can potentially affect my friends.”

Derek is starting to feel annoyed. “What are you talking about, Lydia?”

“I told you. Take your own advice. People aren’t mind readers,” she finally says before walking off.

Derek continues to stare at the door after she’s exited the library, wondering what the hell she could possibly mean by that. 

\---

Because he is weird and masochistic according to Braeden, he likes to stay in on Friday nights to study so that he can have his weekends free. He’s halfway through his readings for tonight when he hears shouting from the room next to his.  

“Harder, I know you can give it to me, Stilinski! _Harder_!” a female voice exclaims.

“God, I’m trying, I’m trying! Ugh!” Stiles’ voice distinctively yells back, and are those squeaking and pounding sounds coming from his bed? Oh, God. 

“Almost there, almost!”

“Aaargh!”

“Oh, yes!”

“Fuck!”

“Whohoooo!”

Derek wants to bleach his ears—is that even possible? He should’ve known. A guy as smart and as hot as Stiles couldn’t possibly be single, and if he was, it wouldn't last for long. That’s totally fine. Derek couldn't care less.

Then Derek hears someone crashing hard into something, objects tumbling down, and a loud cry of pain.

“Dammit, Kira! Kira?”

Less than two seconds later, there are furious knocks on his door. As Derek was expecting it, Stiles is standing behind it, panic-stricken, his hair wild and clothes disheveled as if he had hastily put them back on.

“Derek, hey!” he says, out of breath. “You got a bag of frozen veggies, by any chance?”

“Are you alright?” Derek questions while he fetches the bag of frozen peas that’s been hiding in his mini-fridge since the beginning of the semester.

“I’m fine, it’s my friend. She fell from my bed and hit her head against my desk,” Stiles explains, accepting the bag with gratitude.

“Oh, God. Did she crack her skull open?”

“I don’t think so. But we gotta stop the swelling, right?”

Stiles doesn’t wait for Derek’s answer, already gone back into his room. Derek hesitates for a second, but then decides to follow his neighbour. Head traumas can be pretty serious and he can’t, in good conscience, let Stiles deal with this all alone.

He’s almost expecting a crime scene, blood splatters on the walls and the accompanying ominous music, when he sets foot in Stiles’ room, but instead, he sees Stiles fussing over a young Asian woman who is, thank God, fully dressed and conscious. There’s a video game on pause on the TV screen and the air smells like...Doritos? 

“Ow, _Stiles_!” she hisses when he presses the bag of frozen peas directly against her temple, taking a seat next to her on his bed.

“That’s karma for you, potato cake,” Stiles replies, shooting her a stern look. As much as Derek hates to acknowledge it, the girl is gorgeous, with long wavy black hair and the slender frame of a ballerina. The dimmed light in the room casts soft shadows on her face, enhancing the contours of her high cheekbones and full lips. 

“Not my fault if you suck at _Super Smash Bros_ ,” she retorts, a smirk on her lips. She finally notices Derek standing awkwardly by the door and her smirk stretches into a grin. “Hey, you must be Derek. I’m Kira. Stiles has told me _so_ much about you.”

“Let’s not exaggerate,” Stiles replies quickly, jabbing an elbow into Kira’s ribs. In retaliation, she kicks him off the bed.

“Has he?” Derek asks, unable to conceal the amusement in his voice.

“Yeah. Well, actually, more about your spectacular a—” she begins before Stiles slaps a hand over her mouth.

“Hey, look! It’s your bedtime, young lady!” he exclaims, his voice a little high. He pulls her up and grabs her satchel along with his keys.

“I’m gonna walk Kira back to her room,” Stiles says, looking at Derek’s chin. “You can, um, make yourself at home, I guess. I’ll be back in five.”

“I’ll be in my room,” Derek replies, following Stiles and Kira out.

“Oh, okay,” Stiles says, looking a little disappointed. “See you later.”

\---

Derek is almost done with his chapter, the recent event pushed back in a corner of his memory, when he is interrupted by a sharp rap on his door.

“Hi,” Stiles says as Derek opens his door. “Um, I’m really sorry for earlier. We must’ve made so much noise too, Jesus. Kira and I tend to lose all notion of common sense when we get started on one of our epic video game fights. I can give you a heads up next time, if you want. Again, I apologize for everything.”

“It’s okay,” Derek says quickly before Stiles can turn around and leave. “I needed a break from all of my readings anyway.”

Stiles studies his face for a while, and then smiles. “Would you care for a game?” he asks, his voice faltering a bit.

Derek manages to rein in his eagerness and nods in a way he hopes is all cool and nonchalant.

“You into fighting games?” Stiles asks as they walk back into Stiles’ room.

“Not really. I’m more a Mario Kart and Tetris kind of guy.”

“I got Mario Kart!” Stiles says as he rummages through his impressive collection of video games stored in a vegetable crate.

“How’s Kira?” Derek asks, taking a seat on the edge of Stiles’ bed. He didn’t notice it the first time, distracted by Kira and Stiles’ bickering, but Stiles’ room is surprisingly well organized. A giant calendar occupies almost a quarter of one of his walls where all his assignments and activities are written down and colour coordinated. A Yamaha keyboard sits next to his bed, the wall behind which is covered in movie posters, small drawings, newspaper articles, and music album covers. 

“She’ll live,” Stiles answers, inserting the game into his Wii console. “Malia, her girlfriend, almost gouged my eyes out, though. Remind me to never leave my food unattended for the next couple of weeks.”    

“One time, I almost chopped off my friend Boyd’s fingers by accident and the next morning, I woke up with my eyebrows gone,” Derek shares, smiling at the memory.

“What?” Stiles says in disbelief.

“See, I’m the kind of person who can sleep through a hurricane. So when Erica, Boyd’s girlfriend, shaved off my eyebrows, I didn’t feel a thing.”

“Overprotective and vengeful significant others, right?” Stiles chuckles, shaking his head in commiseration.

“Not your type?” Derek asks casually.

“I’m into _nice_ and _sensible_ people,” Stiles declares, the corner of his lips twitching a little, and Derek doesn’t miss the glance Stiles throws his way. 

“Sensible?” Derek enquires, surprised that such an adjective would appear on anybody’s top ten list of most attractive traits.

“Yep, the kind of people who stay in on Friday nights to study, who have and follow a damn laundry schedule, who think the imperial system makes no sense.”

“There’s a reason why the rest of the world is using the metric system,” Derek says to cover up the sound of his heart pounding furiously in his chest. He’s almost sure the whole building can hear it.

Stiles sighs and turns his head back to the TV screen, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Suddenly, Derek’s latest conversation with Lydia is playing over in his head. _People aren’t mind readers._

“Stiles, I really like you,” he blurts out, dropping his controller on the bed.

“What?” Stiles says, his eyes wide and mouth slightly parted.

“I know I’ve been acting dense, but I wasn’t sure if—”

He can’t finish his sentence because there’s a pair of lips on his mouth, hands tugging at his hair, and he thinks his brain has short-circuited. He recovers pretty quickly, however, wrapping an arm around Stiles’ waist, Derek’s other hand cupping Stiles’ jaw, their kiss turning hungry and desperate. Stiles bites Derek’s bottom lip gently before leaning back a little.

“You idiot,” he whispers, a small smile on his reddened lips. “All this time I’d been thinking you weren’t interested.”  

“Oh, I was very interested. I just didn’t know you were feeling the same.”

“Man, since the day you came banging on my door in all of your righteous fury, I’d wanted to get this show on the road. I just didn’t know how. And you never said anything, so I just assumed you didn’t want this.”

“You know what they say about assumptions.”

Stiles’ chuckle quickly breaks down into giggles, his whole body shaking as he rests his forehead against Derek’s shoulder.

“It’s not even funny!” Stiles hiccups, failing to stifle his laughter.

Derek shrugs and just peppers kisses all over Stiles’ face.

\--- The End.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can come visit me on [Tumblr](http://enso-infinite.tumblr.com/) :)


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